


CRANE

by Enygmass



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Murder? Yes, buckle up cause this is gonna be a long one, depictions of assault in later chapters, flip between past and present, graphic depictions of violence in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enygmass/pseuds/Enygmass
Summary: A cold case, a box of videotapes, and a missing girl from nearly 22 years ago. Barbara Gordon is determined to figure out what exactly happened on March 23rd, 1996. Unfortunately, to get those answers, she first has to figure out how this all ties in with one rogue that no one likes to speak with - The Scarecrow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CRANE is an origin story that I designed a year ago now that’s really gone from there. It follows Jonathan Crane throughout the first four years of his undergrad, ending off with him entering his Master’s. It serves as an exploration on how the Scarecrow moniker developed and how Jonathan came up with the idea of ‘Fear Toxin’. Essentially, we see Jonathan slipping into a downward spiral that takes him from a normal teenager with shit luck to a man that would go to great lengths to ensure his personal success. The only reason any of this is revealed is because the GCPD have elected to open a cold case of a missing woman that attended GCU the same time Jonathan did. The question is raised about what Jonathan has to do with this, leading to an entire vault of filthy secrets being blown open. The first chapter sets the introduction to Jonathan and how he gets to GCU; the next looks more at the modern-time version, including the opening of the GCPD investigation. Thank you for your time, and enjoy!

_May 7th, 1982._

It began with a spider, as all good stories do. A large, awkward thing with too many legs and too many eyes to coordinate itself properly as it tried to creep its way along the floor. Jonathan didn’t move to assist it or squish it – he played the neutral party. He merely sat there and watched. Part of him wondered what it would be like to capture the arachnid and pry one leg off before releasing it. He would let it flee for a bit, then he would capture it and pry off another. Then another. And another. He would repeat the process until the spider was left with one leg to drag itself to salvation, like the men and women he had watched on the television earlier. He wasn’t supposed to see those images, but his father was too busy being locked away in the basement to monitor what Jonathan did in his free time, so often he saw many things he wasn’t supposed to. Seven-year old’s were curious things and telling them no was essentially telling them to try harder.

His mother was not much help at monitoring what Jonathan got up to in his free time either. She often spent her days drifting from room to room, a comb in her hand or piles of laundry in her arms. Jonathan would dog along behind her, picking up the stray items that fell to the ground, which his mother remained oblivious of. Sometimes he would try to get her attention by pulling at her shirt or grasping at her arm – there was no seven-year-old boy in the world who didn’t want even a fraction of his mother’s attention at least once. But all his efforts were to no avail; his mother remained in a world that was not their own, her eyes holding a thousand-yard stare and her smile constantly devoid of any real emotion.

Jonathan only heard her speak when she and his father were fighting, a habit that was becoming more constant as the days wore on. The fights were often small and hardly noticeable to him. They were quite bickering’s in the kitchen after he had gone to bed, in which harsh tones were the only thing to indicate a fight was even occurring. Recently, however, they had become more volatile, and as Jonathan sat there watching the spider scuttle about, he could hear the rumblings in the basement. The muffled voices carried no discernable words until they began to raise louder and louder, and Jonathan could hear snippets such as ‘ _money_ ’ and ‘ _trade_ ’ sprinkled in-between. He turned his head and looked towards the door with his own thousand-yard stare. His blue eyes were as vacant as his mothers. They had been since he was born.

Maybe it was a spur of bravery that provoked him to get up and approach the basement door, but more likely than not it was boredom. The spider had long scuttled away and, as we know, seven-year old’s are curious things. His frail hand, with fingers than carried a bluish tint indicative of the malnourishment he endured, grasped the copper handle and twisted it open, allowing the gaping maw of the door to reveal the wooden stairs leading to its core. The voices were louder now, yelling back and forth from both parents. Jonathan moved to take a step on to the top stair, curious as to what he would be able to see, when another sound froze him in his spot.

It was a scream, but it wasn’t a normal scream. Jonathan had heard animals being ripped apart by predators on the nature documentaries that aired sometimes and that was the only way he was able to describe what he heard come up from that basement. It was as though someone had taken a stray dog, tied it to a tree, and was proceeding to whip it with a cat-o-nine until its flesh was torn clean off its hide. He knew it was his mother; the feminine tone that carried with the harsh pitching was unmistakable. He knew it was his mother, but what he didn’t know was what his father was doing to her down there, and the poignant smell of chemicals only increased his aversion to finding out. Almost as soon as he had opened the door, Jonathan had shut it again, tearing through the hall and up the steps to his bedroom, only stopping to catch his breath when he had slammed the door shut. His entire body shook, and he was numbly aware of something wet on his leg. He had pissed himself but that, and the punishment that was sure to follow suit, was the least of his worries. Something wasn’t right – something wasn’t right ¬– but he was too scared to go look. All he could do was stand there and wait.

* * *

It was no surprise that a neighbour had heard the same sound and called the police. Within minutes, they were banging on the front door demanding to see the occupants. Jonathan only heard their muffled voices through the many walls he resided in, both figuratively and literally, and barely registered the sound of his front door being kicked open. There were footsteps all throughout the house followed by yelling, of both his father and the strangers, which provoked Jonathan to move from his stagnant position.

Opening the door was normally not an enormous feat, but for a seven-year-old who had just heard the equivalent of his mother being tortured, it was something to be proud of. No one took notice of his small frame until it was already too late. Police in blue uniforms were scattered across the main floor and grasped between two of them was his father. Or, who Jonathan assumed was his father. He was wearing what looked to be a modified gas mask; made of burlap with the inhaler sewn to the sides. Jonathan knew that his father worked with chemicals in the basement. Really, it was all the man seemed to talk about at family dinners, but he didn’t understand why his father had to dress so funny while doing so. The police were muttering among themselves, and more than once was the term **_‘Scarecrow’_** brought up, but Jonathan thought little of it. There wasn’t much room to dwell when they brought his mothers body up.

The coroner hadn’t covered it – or maybe he didn’t need to. There wasn’t much to cover, anyways. What had been his mothers face was now a grotesque mask of terror. Rather than the vacant smile and stare, her eyes were wide and glassy, yet still alight with emotion. Her mouth was open as wide as a human mouth could possibly go and the skin of her face had taken a greyish hue. There were gash marks along her cheeks and Jonathan suspected that the red that lined her face matched the red that covered her hands, which were curled protectively against her chest. He might have uttered a sound upon looking at her, or maybe the police all the sudden just became aware that he existed. Either way, as quickly as he saw her, Jonathan was pulled away and wrapped in a blanket. A female officer spoke to him as she pulled him back to his room and out of view from the disaster below. Even then, his mothers wide, baby blue eyes remained burning in the back of his mind.

* * *

_August 27th - September 3rd, 1992_

With a mother dead and a father incarcerated after a surprisingly fast trial, life became unsteady for Jonathan. He was exchanged from family member to family member, passing through their care like a rotten fish you can only hold on to for so long before the urge to puke causes you to toss it away. He had a brief stint with a Great-Aunt Bernadette in Denver, then was passed to an Uncle Harold in Chicago – his first taste of a city – although that didn’t last long, then to a Great-Uncle Matthew who died within the year, until he finally landed in the care of Joseph and Margot Rance, family friends of his mothers. They lived on the outskirts of Gotham City in the more rural area. In fact, Joseph Rance owned a successful harvest business. Together they lived in a small quaint home, reminiscent of eras bygone, with a red pickup truck as their only transportation to the city. It was the idyllic life for a teenage boy.

Residing with these two were probably the only few happy years that Jonathan got to taste in his childhood. Between the ages of fourteen to seventeen he lived with the couple, spending most summers working and most winters studying. The seasons seemed to blend into a sedentary lifestyle. Between July and October, he attended markets and worked out in fields, then between October and June it was mostly perennials and schoolwork. He found himself adjusting to this lifestyle fast, and his previous home-life had become almost a blur, including that of his mother’s face.

Of course, life isn’t without its twists, and the death of Margot Rance was no exception. There was nothing more unpleasant than walking out into a field in the early dawn only to happen across the body of your guardian half crushed by a crop-cutter. Jonathan wasn’t sure if he had screamed or not; either way, he had eventually found himself standing in the Rance’s small kitchen, a cup of water in his hand and a GCPD officer to his right. Joseph’s crying brought back vivid memories of his mothers, and Jonathan’s hand had shaken as he held the glass. If the GCPD officer ever noticed, they had offered no comment.

It had taken perhaps two hours of questioning and some half-hearted investigating for them to conclude that it was an accident. The body was removed by the coroner, the scene semi-tidied, and then as soon as they arrived the GCPD had departed. Jonathan supposed that they had better things to dwell over than a farm accident – perhaps robberies, or _real_ homicides. Either way, soon he and Joseph were alone again, the home suddenly eerily silent and devoid of, well, something. To Jonathan, this was the beginning of a revelation of sorts. Nothing, and that meant absolutely nothing, good ever lasted when Jonathan Crane was involved.

Great-Aunt Bernadette had given him up after complaining that he was far too ‘complicated’ to handle, due to ‘unaddressed issues’. Jonathan hadn’t understood half of what she had said, but still had felt offended overall. Uncle Harold’s business had fallen to disrepair and he had to file for bankruptcy, deciding it was best to kick Jonathan out than deal with another mouth to feed. Then there was Great-Uncle Matthew, who had died mid-bath. His sallow face and blank stare remained compartmentalized in Jonathan’s mind right next to that of his mother’s. It seemed, to him at least, that there was a particularly nasty curse that followed him.

“Jonathan.” It was no more than a week later that Joseph’s voice had filled the kitchen again. His eyes were puffy and red from crying and his nose was running a bit. Overall, he hardly looked like the composed man that Jonathan was used to, but that wasn’t surprising. A week after a death wasn’t enough time for anyone to return to normalcy. “I need you to grab your things.”

They were words that he had grown used to hearing and had grown to loathe. Numerous emotions flitted through his mind at once – upset, anger, fear, sorrow – but one stood out above them all. Hatred. Absolute, and utter, hatred. Sure, he had just gone through yet another massive trauma and those sorts of situations can really fuck with someone’s mental state, but this seemed to run deeper. Because despite all the goods that had come with this new life, a few bads had arrived as well.

School was one of them. Jonathan was academically gifted but socially inept and this was obvious from day one. He blamed it on his upbringing. An isolated child shuffled from home to home hardly had the opportunity to learn the social skills that many by grade nine had come to perfect, and this left him a bit behind. Unfortunately, his peers jumped on this, and sought out all they could to make his life miserable. He could take the typical jeers – freak, dork, and the few disgusting slurs that he felt no need to repeat – but it was when they began calling him Scarecrow that it really rubbed his skin. He had heard that word uttered when his father had been arrested. To be called the same thing sat unwell in Jonathan’s mind.

Then there was Sherry. Sherry, with her warm brown eyes and red curls that fell down her back. Sherry, with her cherry red lips and smile that held a hint of mischief in its midst. Sherry, the only girl in the school Jonathan had bothered to pay more than a minute of his attention to. An isolated child shuffled from home to home hardly had the opportunity to learn another important skill as well – dating. He wasn’t ever taught what to do with girls, and certainly wasn’t taught to understand what he felt about them, so the entire situation was equivalent to a boat in an ocean at night with no guidance. It was a disaster. It didn’t help that Sherry was involved with one of the boys that took great enjoyment in the torment of Crane. For all her perks, and there were many, Sherry had her faults as well. Perhaps this is where he grew to loathe her. Perhaps this is where his habit of making _lists_ of _bullies_ began. It didn't matter anyways. It wasn’t just Sherry who received the brunt of his hatred.

Jonathan loathed many people; Bo, Steve, his mother, his father, his aunts, his uncles, the janitor who was always so rude, the math teacher who had sneered at him in the hall, the teenager at the fresco who had bagged his groceries wrong, many people. And now Margot was one of them. Jonathan loathed her, because she had left him like all the others, and now she was forcing him to leave as well. He swallowed. He looked to Joseph, and then to the world outside. Across the field, the sun was beginning to set, causing the barns shadows to loom towards the kitchen door. It was silent. It was cold. To Jonathan, it seemed like an omen.

“Alright.”

* * *

_September 4th, 1992 – 4:47 pm._

The acceptance letter to Gotham University had come that December, and Jonathan had accepted by January. That was why it was no surprise when, as soon as Joseph had loaded them both into the red pickup truck, they had begun to drive towards the city. Joseph wasn’t giving Jonathan up – Joseph was merely moving him to a new spot until this situation with Margot was resolved. Her remains were still being scraped from the bottom of the crop-cutters wheel after all this time, so it was understandable why Joseph would want him to leave the home as soon as possible. It was out of genuine care. It was just upsetting that they had to part on these terms. Jonathan had hoped for something a bit more.

The ride was mainly silent, save for the crooning of Sturgill Simpson in the background, and Jonathan found the lack of conversation to be painfully oppressive. He alternated between looking out his window and looking out the front window, staring at the waves of corn that they passed by. He didn’t look to Josephs direction. The snivelling he heard from time to time indicated to Jonathan exactly what state the other was in. It was only when they passed Broadbeach, still over two hours out from the city, that Jonathan moved to break the barrier.

“What will you do?” He asked, seeming to startle Joseph from his train of thought. The other man looked away from the road for a moment to study him.

“What do you mean?” His voice still waivered a bit but sounded sterner than before. He was almost back to Joseph. Almost.

“Now, I mean? Are you still going to stay on the farm?” Most people left places where they had lost loved ones. It was only a natural human reaction, after all, to move as far away from painful memories as possible. Joseph, however, simply shrugged in response.

“Probably not. That farm, you know, is the only place I really know. The only place we really knew. It would’ve broken her heart to hear that I up and sold it or somethin’.” That was fair. On the flip side, some people stayed in places they had lost someone in order to preserve their memory. Joseph was always the opposite of the norm which explained why he fit this case. Jonathan nodded in what he hoped was an empathetic enough way and allowed the silence to settle again.

For ten minutes at least. Then he spoke once more.

“I’ll miss her.” The words left Jonathan’s lips only because they seemed appropriate for the situation – not because he felt them. Joseph nodded as well, his own lip quivering with the hint that a fresh wave of tears was to come and offered no response. Jonathan felt, overall, that one was not needed. No further words were exchanged between them until the pickup truck pulled in front of an archaic building two hours later, now well outside of the fields Jonathan had become so familiar with.

On the outside of the building on a plaque in gold lettering read the words ‘ ** _MARTHA HALL: A GCU COLLEGE_**.” Red flowers entangled themselves up the sides of the plaque, creating an ornate design that added a bit of life to the otherwise drab stone hall. Jonathan’s thoughts were once again interrupted by the sound of his suitcase hitting the sidewalk beside him. He looked over to see Joseph, tears now thoroughly wiped away, looking up at the hall.

“Well then.” He offered.

“Well then.” Jonathan echoed in return.

They were only standing there a moment before the doors flew open and a woman came bounding down the steps. She wore a yellow T-Shirt that had a black ‘GCU’ written across the front, and a smile that seemed to split from one side of her face to the other. Within mere seconds she stood in front of Jonathan and Joseph. Up close, she was underwhelming. Probably because she hardly reached Jonathan’s chest standing up straight. Her hair, which looked to be styled in a bee-hive reminiscent of the fifties, made up for her lack of height though.

“Welcome,” She announced, taking a moment to catch her breath as she rested her hands on her hips. Clearly running down the steps full speed was winding, and Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he waited for her to finish. Joseph just seemed bemused by it all.

“To Gotham University!”

* * *

_November 9th, 2018._

In a dimly lit room, in a station nestled between a bank and a butcher shop, there sat a box. Written in black sharpie on this box, barely discernable against the worn cardboard, there were three words.

 _ONE._

Then somewhere from the doorframe, hidden out of view, someone turned on the light and a females voice filled the air.

"I guess this would be it."


	2. November 10th, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at the present day, we're introduced to Montoya and Bullock vs. Crane with a side of exhausted Jeremiah. Also, Barbara gears up for the first tape. We're given some background information on who filmed the tapes, who the missing girl is, and how Crane is involved in all of this. Enjoy!

**_November 10th, 2018 - Arkham Asylum._ **

The halls felt sterile in the Asylum, more so than the precinct. Where the precinct was peppered with flyers of missing persons, persons of interests, and advertisements of events the GCPD may be hosting down the line, the halls of the Asylum were completely bare save for the few doors that lined their way down. Renee Montoya was not particularly fazed by this fact. She had been privy to the Asylum on more than one occasion, and even jokingly referred to it as her second place of employment. Harvey Bullock, on the other hand, was less inclined to make such jokes. To him, this place was no better than the garbage bins located behind the precinct. He’d rather be stuck on a 12-hour shift then spend more than 30 minutes here. 

“We’ve moved him to a secondary holding room. There, you’ll be able to speak with him without much interruption. Keep in mind that all conversations you hold with him will be monitored by both his current doctor and Dr. Arkham. This is to keep track of his treatment progress as well as indicate to the doctors what further treatment needs to be issued.” The nurse they were walking with spoke the usual mandatory speech with a flat tone and a bored expression. Clearly she, like the two detectives she walked with now, had done this before. Renee did her best to nod along; Harvey didn’t even spare the woman a look. 

“How long are we able to have, again?” Renee knew that if they had moved the patient to the precinct, they would have been able to keep him in holding for as long as they needed. However, Class 1 intimates weren’t allowed to be moved from the Asylum, which meant any interviews they were going to have had to take place here. It didn’t help that the allocated time periods tended to change with each patient. Joker, for example, was only allowed in the room for 20 minutes max. The officers interrogating him usually didn’t last that long, though. 

But Crane? Crane was different. 

Renee couldn’t say that she had much interaction with the ex-doctor turned supervillain. She had dealt with Ivy, Harley, Selina, Freeze, and even the Riddler on more than one occasion, but never Crane. He always seemed to just pass from the Batman’s grasp right into Arkham’s welcoming arms, and never into the GCPD hands. Renee didn’t mind that, of course. Crane not being in the precinct meant there was less risk of anyone being gassed with his infamous toxin. But the lack of experience left her worried about the upcoming interview. She felt a thought gnawing in her mind that perhaps she should have done more reading on him before coming - in fact, she felt almost _anxious_ about this. 

Harvey didn’t look worried at all, naturally. The man’s no-bullshit attitude and indifference to anything happening around him allowed him to keep a crippling bored stare on his face no matter what the experience. Renee recalled one time that Harvey dealt with Riddler, and how frustrated the Riddler had become at Harveys seemingly uncaringness towards the riddles and insults being thrown in his face. That incident had ended with Nygma howling in a holding cell and Harvey leaving the precinct for another Dunkin Donuts round. Having him accompany her was probably one of the better things that could happen. 

“You’ll have about two hours. At six, the inmates are taken for dinner, then to the showers, and then to their cells. Unfortunately we cannot allow Crane to miss meals for this questioning session. It’s vital for us to keep the inmates on a strict schedule to maximize their health and wellness.” Another scripted answer, minus the two hours portion. Renee fixed a smile on her face in response as she walked behind the nurse, allowing the conversation to lapse into silence until the nurse led them to a room located down an adjourning hall. Outside the room was a window, or what Renee assumed was one. More likely than not it was a two-way mirror where they could see Crane, but Crane could not see them. 

Outside of the window stood two men, one of them a man Renee was quite familiar with, and the other less so. Jeremiah Arkham looked as exhausted as Renee last recalled; his mousy brown hair was streaked greyer than the last time they met, his glasses were crooked on his nose, and his mouth was set to a thin, straight line. He looked unimpressed. He looked resigned. The other man looked far less-so. His blonde hair was cut in a neat trim, his suit was impeccable, and the smile he gave Renee was broad enough to put the Joker to shame. This must be Dr. Boraska. He was Cranes newest doctor of a whole three days. The last doctor had been put on a long-term leave for ‘unlisted’ reasons. 

“Dr. Arkham, Dr. Boraska.” Renee nodded to both, her smile turning from the superficial one she wore to a more genuine look. She felt sympathy for Arkham - enough so that it affected her mood. 

“We were told we have 2 hours?” Harvey’s gruff voice was misplaced in the asylum’s halls. It sounded like a voice you would hear in a bar, not a place where everyone else barely spoke above whispers. Jeremiah looked to him and nodded.

“Yes, that’s what we, being Dr. Boraska and I, thought was best. If you need to speak to him further we can, of course, plan for other sessions that can be held for longer periods of time. But given the nature of your visit, which Crane has not been filled in about yet, starting small is a good call.” Jeremiah did his best to minimize his hand movements as he spoke, but even then he still flitted about like a nervous bird. Harvey’s eyes narrowed and he shoved his own hands into his pant pockets.

“You didn’t tell him why we were visiting? Isn’t that mandatory? He probably thinks we’re fucking asking about his toxin, not a potential homicide.” His one hand shot out of his pocket to gesture angrily towards the room where Crane sat. Renee gave him a sharp gesture with a clear message - _tone it down._

“That’s fine. It’s probably best if I go in and explain it myself. Would it be alright for me to begin?” Now she looked to Dr. Boraska, who simply nodded. He seemed content enough to let Jeremiah deal with Harvey. With this confirmation in mind, Renee stepped around the two men and rested her hand on the door. To her knowledge, Harvey was going to stay back and watch through the window; they determined it was best to have one watch Crane from the outside and one deal with Crane on the inside. So, without further waiting, Renee pushed open the door and stepped in. 

To describe Crane was not an easy feat. Describing him was akin to asking a blind man to describe a painting in a gallery; it just wasn't something that was possible. The man was a mixture of long limbs and angular features that made him look like a Picasso painting in every wrong way. A mess of dark, grimy hair sat on his head - Renee recalled showers came after dinner -, and his glasses were crooked on his face, but not in the charming way Jeremiah's had been. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him with his wrists embraced in chains and his shoulders were hunched, throwing his body over the table. But what alarmed Renee the most were those blue eyes, which fixated upon her as soon as she walked in with a stare that was both there and absent. It was a stare she had seen on images of abused children in her psychology textbooks. It was a stare that was not befitting for a 43-year-old man. 

"Detective Montoya." His voice echoed throughout the chilly room with a sureness. It was higher than Renee had anticipated; most of the time when he was shown on the television, he was never speaking, and when he masqueraded as Scarecrow, it was common knowledge that he wore a voice modifier. For some reason, it was more disturbing for her to hear his actual voice than the Scarecrow one Gotham was so familiar with. 

Renee allowed herself to get seated across from Crane before giving him the privilege of her attentions. Every single action she did, from the way she sat to the way she spoke, had to be kept in check around him. One wrong move could be lethal to a man with his knowledge and training. 

"Doctor Crane." If he was going to use titles, then so was she. "How are you today?"

It felt off putting having a casual conversation in a room where one participant was in chains and the other in a suit, but then again, this was Gotham. 

"Let me see. I woke up and was greeted with the usual manhandling. Following this, I was forced down a hall to eat a meal that I feel violates every food and safety act. I was looking forward to rec time, but lo behold, they took me to this room instead, where I get to sit tethered to a frigid table waiting for a waste of my time. So, overall, I have been better." He rapped his nails on the table and smiled at her. Renee decided that she didn't like his smile. "Yourself?"

"I'm well." Renee didn't feel compelled to tell him her entire day. "Were you informed why you're here?"

Crane shook his head slightly to confirm that, indeed, he was not told. It was surprising that he didn't say anything about that. For some reason, it seemed like he was the type. 

In response, Renee rested her hands flat on the table and fixed him with a firm stare.

“We’re re-opening the Hart case of ‘95. Because of this, we’re re-interviewing individuals who were regarded as prime suspects. This also means that we’ll need to take a buccal swab from you, with consent, of course.” Renee rattled off what she needed to get out of the way before she got to the brunt of her appearance. It was just unfortunate that Crane was the type to interject whenever needed.

“Why is the case being reopened?” The sharpness in his voice snapped her attention back to him; attention that Renee hadn’t even realized was drifting away. Crane was looking at her with an expression that could only be called _annoyed._ “Last I recall, the police had ripped apart the entire campus _and_ the student body on top of it all. Absolutely nothing turned up.” He leaned forward further on the table, almost as if he meant to leap across it to her, and Renee felt herself leaned back in her seat a bit. 

“New evidence has surfaced that’s brought interest back to the case. It’s been 23 years since the case was closed - so, naturally, when something comes up we tend to jump on it pretty quickly.” 

“What was it that turned up?” Crane leaned back now, returning to his usual uninterested demeanour. His foot began to tap on the ground, chains clanking, as though he were growing tired of their conversation already. Renee glanced over to the mirror that was situated on the wall beside them where she knew Harvey was watching alongside the doctors, and Crane followed her gaze.

“Ah, who else did you bring along with you, Detective? Was it the Bat?” He paused, seeming to think, and then shook his head. “No, the Bat wouldn’t go to you for this sort of case. Is it Bullock?” When Renee didn’t answer immediately, Crane gave her a wolfish grin. “Oh, do invite him in! It’s been a while since _Harvey_ and I sat down for a talk.” 

She was losing control of the questioning and she knew it. This was Crane’s pattern of action; he liked to take the reigns of whatever interrogation he was in and lead it himself. It’s what he did with his therapeutic sessions _constantly._

“One of the suspects has passed away recently, and in his passing he left the GCPD a note. This lead to the recovery of a box of what we believe to be video tapes. We’re going to start watching them soon, but the note-”

“Who was it?” Crane interrupted again. Renee’s attention turned away from the mirror and back to where he sat. He had stopped tapping his foot, she noted, and his interest seemed to have returned. 

“That’s, not relevant to you, Doctor Crane. What matters is that the note the deceased left us contained enough information regarding Ms. Hart’s disappearance that we, the GCPD, feel compelled enough to re-examine the case. Therefore, you and I are here. I’m interested in the nature of your relationship with Ms. Hart leading up to the day of her disappearance. Faculty and other peers had vouched that you two circled in the same crowd, and that she frequented your house during the second and third years of your undergrad.” As she spoke, Renee pulled out a notebook and a pen from the bag she had carried in alongside her. “We also know that she visited your house the day of her disappearance. Would you mind answering a few of my questions?” 

Crane, ultimately, didn’t really have a say in the matter. Both he and Renee were aware of this as well, which was why when she posed the question it wasn’t met with the same flurry of protests and demands for a lawyer that such comments usually were. Instead, Crane simply watched her with that thousand-yard stare of his. His foot had begun tapping the ground again. 

“Tell me who the deceased is.” He repeated his previous request, but now he spoke with a firmer, deeper tone. “Give me their name, and I’ll give you your answers.” 

She probably should have noted the red flag showing itself here. Crane’s intense interest in who the deceased suspect was wasn’t a normal response for anyone about to enter an interrogation regarding a missing woman. Most people tried to save their own asses - no one hardly cared about who said what. 

Still, she relented, only because she needed his answers before their two hours came to an end. 

“Thomas Baird. He was a student at Gotham University as well during the disappearance. I believe you two were acquainted…?” The question seemed to draw out at the end, getting lost somewhere between her mouth and Crane’s ears. The older man offered a shrug, his demeanour appearing unaffected by this newfound knowledge. 

“Baird. Yes. He and I knew one another during our undergrad years. I remember the police holding him as a suspect for the investigation. It doesn’t surprise me that he’d go out trying to get this case running again. He was adamant on clearing his name.” Crane sighed at this, and finally slouched back into his chair. Or, at least as far back as the cuffs allowed him. “You’re wasting your time with this. Everyone knows that Baird was responsible for whatever happened to Hart. But, I did say I’d give you your answers if you gave me mine, so. I suppose this is better than rec time.” 

With his consent now voiced, Renee nodded and clicked open her pen. Tapping it along the page, she looked between the words she had written and Crane. She felt almost _excited_ at this opportunity, mainly because she had the upper hand on him. Renee already knew the correct answers to her questions - now it was just up to Crane to deliver them. 

“Why don’t you start off by telling me how you and Ms. Hart met?”

* * *

**_November 10th, 2018 - GCPD Precinct._ **

The box sat on the table, untouched since it’s retrieval, and Barbara decided that she hated it. Not only because it said Crane on the side, which was already an indicator that it was deserving of her hate, but because it just _was._ It was an ugly box made of cardboard and ripped at the edges. It smelled of mildew and that horrible attic smell that old houses carried, and the tapes that peeked up over the edge looked like blackened innards ready to spill out. It didn’t help that the box had two siblings, seated on the table beside it, which also looked decayed and neglected. 

They had retrieved the boxes from the house of Thomas Baird, an odd-job man who had worked mainly on the docks of Gotham’s adjourning cities. Barbara had read that he had attended Gotham University, and upon completion of his undergrad degree had essentially fallen off the face of the earth. He had cut contact with his parents and three siblings, he had cancelled his bank accounts, he had sold his car and his phone, and he had left the city. The only reason the neighbouring counties police had known this was the corpse of Thomas Baird that they had been called to retrieve was because of the man’s health card, which was found in his discarded shirt pocket, tucked neatly behind a packet of cigarettes. 

Normally, if a suicide occurs in one counties area, they didn’t bother to call other police forces in. Thomas Baird had cut his throat open in the bathtub. Blood had shot in arterial spurts along the wall and pooled itself down into the tub water, which ran as a murky pink rather than the stereotypical red one viewed on TV. The case was pretty much open and shut - he had been found with a knife in his hand and the note he had left on the counter essentially confirmed that this was self-inflicted. The only catch was the content of the note, which eventually led to Barbara, and a box, and an old VHS player. 

The Meagan Hart disappearance was a case that Barbara could not remember herself even if she tried. At 27, Barbara was only three years old when the GCPD were ripping apart the entire GCU campus looking for the missing girl. Her father had spoken only sparsely about it since it was closed, using Meagan as a reference for why Barbara should be cautious around strangers. So, for the case to suddenly come back into light while Barbara was working for the GCPD was a fascinating twist of fate. It seemed, in a way, that Meagan Hart was going to be linked with the Gordon family until her case was solved. Or, so it seemed to Barbara. 

Thomas Baird had cited that he had seen Meagan Hart last. He wrote, with shaking scrawl, that ‘...she had been there….’ and then suddenly ‘...she was not.’. He did not write down any names of people who may have been responsible for her disappearance, which would have helped everyone immensely, but he had left specific instructions to go to the attic and find ‘...the boxes of tapes.’. Thomas had, once again, failed to elaborate on what was _on_ the tapes, but the fact that he had gone the extra mile to underline that specific section several times was more than enough to get the police rolling. So, they had contacted the GCPD, and it had been Montoya and Bullock who got the tapes. Right now, they were at Arkham with Crane, to the best of Barbara’s knowledge. They were re-interviewing all the old suspects who were still around in order to build a foundation for the case again. 

Barbara, on the other hand, was given the better task. She got a break from dealing with rogues for once and instead was asked to comb through the video footage. Somewhere on one of the tapes was a clue to Meagan Hart, or so her father believed. Barbara wasn’t going to protest. The case had been eating at the older Gordon ever since the file was shut and locked in a box to be forgotten. Bringing it back out seemed to have ignited a new form of passion in the man. 

“Right then.” Barbara mumbled to herself as she reached over the edge of the box and grabbed a tape, which sat on the very top as though it wished to be grabbed first. She turned it over in her hands and investigated it. The tape itself was a standard VHS, but on the side was a strip of white tape with the words ‘September ‘92’ written in shaky black sharpie. It was the same handwriting that had been in Thomas Bairds letter. Barbara smiled to herself a bit. Call it intuition, but she was pretty sure this would be right at the beginning of Baird’s undergraduate years. He was a student from ‘92-’96, after all. 

Setting the tape down on her lap, she wheeled herself over to the VHS player and popped it into the slot. A whirring sound rang out throughout the room and for a second Barbara was worried that she would need to hit rewind or something with the remote. Vivid memories of her childhood, when she used to spend hours rewinding old Disney films, flooded back to her with heavy nostalgia. 

Then the screen went black. Wheeling back a bit, she stared at the screen which remained devoid of anything for a few moments. Just when she was about to reach for the remote and hit that accursed rewind button, static filled the screen, and a fuzzy image came into focus. It was of a boy who had to be no more than seventeen years old. He had brown hair that seemed disarrayed, as though he had just woken up, and dark brown eyes that took up a good majority of the screen. 

“Oh, shit!” The boys voice crackled with the poor quality of the film as he yanked the camera back, turning it to face a mirror. Standing there, holding the camera with a triumphant grin, was the younger version of the recently deceased Thomas Baird. Barbara felt her smile grow as she grabbed for her own notebook. At the top, in her own loopy scrawl, she simply wrote:

_Tape 1: September of ‘92._


	3. Chapter 3 - September 5th, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 of the Martha House proves to be a unique experience for Jonathan, who never really was one to like established rules. Especially when they come from a woman with enough hairspray to joke a small rodent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly sorry for the delay!! University hit me like a freight train, from work to research opportunities. Luckily, however, I'm on a break, and as a holiday treat I give you guys this chapter! Things are starting to warm up now. I know it may seem slow, but you always need to set the mood before you get to the murders. Have a fantastic holiday, everyone, and see you in 2020!

_September 5th, 1992 - Martha House._

The first thing Jonathan noticed was the fact that the house, although quaint in a pre-modern sense, was as derelict as it could get. It was a good thing that he was no stranger to rotting pipes and mysterious growths in the showers - Martha House certainly did not lack in these.. Despite its decay, which seemed only thinly covered by the wallpaper in the halls, the Martha House was otherwise not a terrible place. The wooden floors hardly creaked as he lugged his bags up the steps with Joseph no more than two steps behind. The lights above seemed to reminisce in a time that had long passed, and the portraits that were dotted along the walls - of previous headmasters, it seemed - added a haunted charm. Jonathan decided, when he had finally set his bag down and fumbled out a key for room 384, that it was livable.

"It doesn't seem too awful, does it?" There was an urgency in Josephs voice as they both shuffled into the room that indicated desperation. Joseph wanted Jonathan to enjoy the residence - mostly because Joseph, understandably, didn't want Jonathan coming home. The older man needed time to lick his raw wounds.

"No. I like the, ah..." Jonathan paused and squinted his eyes a bit. There was a painting on the wall above the sparse bed that appeared to be a mock up Jackson Pollock, complete with spattered red and black ink drips. This, combined with two torn mattresses and an unidentifiable stain on the ceiling, really screamed _this is a dorm room_. "...decor."

“We’re so glad you like it!” Jonathan's thoughts were broken once again by the jarring voice of the orientation week leader, who had introduced herself as Jodi on the way up. She was standing by the door, her beehive hair only in slight disarray from her seemingly endless bursts of energy. Jonathan wished he could take what she had and bottle it for later - he was practically dragging his feet from place to place at this rate. “I just have a quick run down for you before I let you settle!”

“Will I be having a roommate?” Jonathan interjected with his question before Jodi could begin her spiel, and for a second she had the nerve to look affronted. Then her wide smile returned to her face, and she pointed towards the second mattress.

“Well, yes! You were assigned a double room. Unfortunately, all of our single rooms were taken by the fast-track students, so this was the only option left. Don’t worry, though! You, me, and your future roommate will be having a meeting by the end of the week to discuss roommate agreements, and if there are any concerns, you can most certainly bring it up then!” Her voice retained its sugar-sweet tone as she folded her hands behind her back and stared him down. Jonathan decided then and there that Jodi and he would not be friends.

Joseph, having finally tuned back in and noticing the look of disgust slowly etching itself onto Jonathan’s face, reached out and gave a hard swat to the younger man’s back.

“I’m sure it won’t be too bad!” He tried to sound chipper as he spoke, although it was clear to the others in the room that his efforts were not without force. “Just think - at least you’ll know someone before the, ah, orientation week?” He looked to Jodi for confirmation, who simply nodded her head. “Orientation week stuff starts!”

Jonathan already knew right off the bat that he was _not_ , nor was he _ever_ , going to actively participate in the orientation week activities. He had expertly avoided any demonstration of school spirit throughout elementary and high school, and God be damned if he wasn’t going to keep that up this year. No, Jonathan was going to hole himself up in this dorm room and get ahead of his readings rather than run out to a field like a maniac screaming a bunch of spirited chants. In response, he shrugged off Joseph’s touch and turned to his bags. Jodi, seeing that the topic was closed, resumed her spiel.

“Your dorm room has two keys that work with the locks - yours and your roommates. Making copies of the keys and handing them out violates our resident policy, so please try not to do that. Quiet hours begin at eleven in the evening and extend until seven in the morning, so if you have any early morning classes, try to keep it down. Mens bathrooms are on this floor and women's bathrooms are on the second floor. The laundry room is on the first floor, as is the common room and kitchen space. Both the basement and the attic are off limits to students due to safety concerns. If you have any questions at all, my room is in 201, just below.” Jodi reached out to fix a few stray hairs that had fought their way free from her hair-spray hell, and then smiled at the duo. “I’ll leave you two to say goodbyes. Jonathan, our first meeting is at four.”

Then, with that, the hurricane that was Don Jodi was gone, leaving Jonathan and Joseph to deal with the fallout. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them for several moments as Jonathan threw his bag on to one of the free mattresses, yanking open the zipper to peer inside. Joseph simply stood tensely on the side and watched as he unpacked. Once or twice he would step forward, as if to say something or offer his help, but in the end he would always melt back into the corner. It was only when Jonathan zipped up the now empty suitcase and tossed it into the closet did Joseph finally speak.

“She would’ve been happy to see you here, you know.” Joseph's voice seemed to trail off into the empty room, filling the space and seeping into the tattered wallpaper before disappearing, leaving the two men staring at one another. “Margot, I mean. I don’t know about your mother, but I’m sure she'd have been proud too.”

“...Thanks.” Jonathan didn’t do well with sappy moments like the one that Joseph was pushing towards. He just wasn’t a very _expressive_ person when it came to affection, or sentiment, or anything past neutrality. Joseph nodded, looking anywhere but at Jonathan directly.

“You’re gonna be okay, kid.” The words were sighed out as Joseph’s shoulders finally sagged and his one hand slipped back into his pocket. His steel-toed boots scuffed at the hardwood floor a bit more before he finally moved forward towards his godson. With a bit of reluctance, it seemed, he looped one arm around Jonathan’s shoulders and drew him into a hug. Jonathan permitted it to happen; he knew that this wasn’t easy for Joseph. The man had always had people around him, and now, he was going to be utterly alone. After all, it wasn’t like either was going to write to the other.

“Just, y’know, keep your head up. Study hard, do your assignments on time,” Joseph pulled away and looked him over. Jonathan didn’t particularly _like_ how much pity was carried in the stare, but he bit his tongue back and offered the other a smile. “And try to make friends. You won’t be able to get through this school without someone to fall back on - you know this. Having someone beside you could be the difference between floating and drowning in the end.”

Then, with another firm pat to his shoulder, Joseph was gone, with the sound of his heavy boots echoing down the otherwise silent hall.

Jonathan stood in one spot for what felt like several moments, watching the dust particles drift through the air from the sun that shone through the window. The moans and sighs of the Martha House had started up again, their mournful melody seeming to grieve for the departure of his family on Jonathan’s behalf. He himself wasn’t grieving. If anything, the departure of Joseph felt like a taste of freedom, as though he were a caged zoo creature that had finally been let loose. Opportunities were going to present themselves on plates of silver and gold now that he no longer had to look towards a parent for approval. No more monitoring of his habits, no more checking of his health, no more reassurance that he was competent enough to get by. Every bite, bruise, laceration and abrasion could now be countered with equal brute force without a risk of punishment - something that he had always faced when in high school. Never could he fight back to Steve and the others when they beat him to near blackout for fear of his godmothers disapproval. Thank God he had taken a mechanics class in high school. Thank God that the tractors they had on the farm were so outdated. Jonathan had just wanted to incite a bit of _fear_ , he had always just wanted to incite a bit of _fear_ , just enough to ease his godmother off of his back. It seemed, however, the world had wanted him to fast-track a bit. It always wanted him to fast track. Every event that he had orchestrated ultimately led to him here, standing in this room in the morning light, bathing in the glow of his future.

And in that morning light, as the dust particles settled and the house continued to weep, Jonathan allowed a genuine smile to split across his face.

* * *

_September 5th, 1992 - Martha House. 1:30 pm._

“Thomas Baird, you put that damn camera away!” Jonathan had been reading a book on his newly set up corner of the room when a woman’s shrill voice pierced the air, causing him a fright. He barely had time to sit up when the door to his room was forced open and through it fell a stout red faced woman. She was followed shortly by a tall, exhausted looking man, and a boy who looked roughly around Jonathan’s own age. Jonathan assumed that the boy must be Thomas, given the way he was shoving a rather bulky looking camera unsuccessfully into his pocket. “You’re always pointing that damned camera in our faces! I knew that your father should have never bought you that. See, I told him I did, I said, 'Peter, Thomas is just going to get into shit with that-!'”

“Mother!” Thomas’ voice was higher than expected, given that the boy carried the same build as some of the jocks Jonathan had faced back in high school. This created almost an immediate averse effect in his mind, even as Thomas turned and shot Jonathan a look that almost dripped with desperation. It seemed that he was the only one to take notice of the other boy in the room.

Both the man, Peter, and the woman seemed to clue in that they weren’t alone, and almost with a snap of fingers, Thomas’ mother went from raging and spitting to a sugar-coated grin.

“Hello there! You must be Tommy’s roommate. I’m Mrs. Baird,” She shuffled over and stuck her hand out. Jonathan noted that there were several rings thrust on her pudgy fingers as he reached his own hand out and shook hers. She smelled overwhelmingly of spearmint, and the shock of frizzy red hair that sat upon her head seemed to carry more hairspray than Don Jodi’s beehive. Was that even possible? “The man behind me is my husband, Peter, and hiding behind him would be our Tommy.”

“I can introduce myself, y’know.” Thomas grumbled his protest as he finally relinquished up his battle with the camera, electing to chuck it onto the desk instead. Mrs. Baird shot him a scathing look before letting go of Jonathan's hand and turning to address the several bags they had lugged in.

What followed next was what Jonathan could only describe as a scenario out of a sitcom. Mrs. Baird fussed and argued constantly as she and Thomas went about unpacking and arranging his possessions. On more than one occasion was Thomas forced to save a trinket from being thrown out, only to be met with a chorus of ‘well do you _really_ need that?’’s and ‘Thomas Alexander Baird I tell you-!’’s. Mr. Baird, or Peter, as he went, was more like Joseph in the situation. He simply stood by the door and watched until it appeared that Thomas and Mrs. Baird had finally settled at odds in the decor war.

Jonathan had offered no comment or inquiry of assistance the entire time the fiasco had occurred, choosing to simply observe as it progressed. Only when Mrs. Baird had crushed her son to death in a hug and kissed him several times goodbye - Jonathan was sure the coral lipstick would never come off the boy’s face - and Peter had shaken his sons hand goodbye, did Jonathan bother to speak again.

“Quite the character.” Thomas turned and gave him a once over, prompting Jonathan to continue. “Your mother, I mean.”

“Oh.” Thomas let out a dry laugh and grabbed his camera again, falling back onto the bed with a huff. “Yeah she can get, uh, pretty wrapped up in things. Especially when it comes to saying bye to one of us. She’s always been ultra-protective, so she’s constantly fussing around and tryna make sure we aren’t gonna die as soon as she goes.”

Jonathan let out a sound of agreement, letting the conversation die between them. Thomas fiddled with his camera a bit more before speaking up again, probably to fill the heavy silence they sat in.

“So.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking for a topic to present. “Did you have that Jodi woman talk to you too?”

Jonathan felt himself grimace at the mention of that name. His facial expression must’ve been quite telling, because Thomas let out a laugh and sat up to face him.

“Man, I don’t know what’s up with her, but I don’t think I’ll be stopping by her room too often. Her hairstyle kinda reminds me of my mom’s old prom pics she keeps stashed down in our basement.” Thomas reached up and created a swirling motion above his head before rolling his eyes. Jonathan offered a tight smile.

“Yeah, it is a bit much, isn’t it? I’m not too sure what exactly she’s trying to capture with it but,” He shrugged. “To each our own. Maybe it's just an eccentricity?”

Thomas shook his head and shot Jonathan what could only be described as a knowing look. “Nah, man. She’s gotta be hittin the pills before the semester even starts. No way someone sober can handle the weight of that thing on her head without crying.”

The two boys stared at one another for a moment before cracking into a chorus of chuckles, Jonathan's a bit more forced than Thomas'. However he supposed, at that moment, that Thomas wouldn’t be the worst roommate he could have. If anything, the boy seemed good at keeping himself preoccupied, which would suit Jonathan just fine. As long as he knew when it was okay to speak with Jonathan and when it was best to leave him alone, there likely would not be any issues.

* * *

_September 5th, 1992 - Martha House. 3:40 pm._

Despite wanting to continue his novel, Jonathan found himself becoming enraptured in conversation with Thomas for the remaining two hours. Apparently, the other boy was in film studies. The camera was because he wanted to document his university career (he had asked Jonathan if he wanted to partake, to which Jonathan had simply shrugged. The prospect of being on camera had neither appealed nor repulsed him). Thomas had five siblings, was the second youngest, and had a pet frog affectionately named _Anthony Hop-kins._ Emphasis on the _‘Hop’._ He had grown up in rural Wisconsin on a farm and had moved to Gotham for his university career because ‘ _there really isn’t fuck-all in Wisconsin_ ’. Also, he had been a track star in high school, a feat he had accredited to his constant running after pigs in his youth.

Jonathan was charmed by the boys naivety and perceived innocence, but had elected to release less information about himself in response. When asked, he had told Thomas that he grew up on a farm with his godparents. When prompted about his real parents, Jonathan had told him that they had both passed, although not _how_ they had passed. He told Thomas that he was in the psychology stream, that he had no family beyond his godparents, and that he had chosen Gotham simply because the program was renown. Breaking his entire life story to the other in the first meeting had not been an option. What was there to tell? _How his father had caused his mothers death? How he had been shuffled from home to home due to a series of unfortunate events? How he might’ve had his godmother torn to shreds by farm equipment? How he's only on campus now because his godfather wasn't in the proper mindset to care for him? How this is all so **swell**?_

Thomas had seemed disappointed but accepting of his responses. He probably thought that Jonathan was just an introvert who would need a bit more prompting to reveal anything beyond the superficial small talk. It was only after this biographical run down did both boys realize the first dorm meeting time was drawing near, forcing both of them to get up and make their way down to the common room.

The first floor hallways were admittedly far worse than the third floor. Jonathan counted several water stains running along the walls, and the pipes above them were directly exposed with hardly no insulation at all. Thomas had pointed out on their venture downwards that the lights seemed to be flickering a fair amount, indicating they would be going out soon. He had then made Jonathan promise that they’d do their laundry together rather than one at a time.

“Hear me out, what if there’s a serial killer in the basement?” Thomas had urged. “And that’s why we can’t go into the basement. Think, I don’t know, Sorority Massacre or some shit.” Jonathan had just shaken his head and continued walking. He had never seen _‘Sorority Massacre’_.

When they had reached the common room, the state was a bit better, but not by much. Jonathan would label it as ‘livable if you were living there for three days maximum’. The red fabric couches were worn and ripped and arranged into a circle around a fireplace that glowed dimly in the barely-viewable lighting. Tiffany lamps were dotted around the room, some with their covers broken, others with no covers at all. Above the fireplace there was a painting of what appeared to be a man biting anothers throat. Jonathan recognized it as one of the scenes in Dante's _Inferno_ and wondered, with concern, why exactly this was the decor piece they had gone with. It didn’t help that it was just Jonathan, Thomas, and one other student in the room.

The girl was curled up on one of the plush couches and had barely looked in their direction when they had walked in. Her face seemed haggard and her eyes looked a bit bloodshot in the light - she had been crying, presumably because her parents had left. She had a completely shaven head, which caught Jonathan off guard at first, and she wore a bulky floral sweater which was wrinkled and frayed at the edges. She looked exactly how you’d expect a first year to look.

“Hey!” Thomas, ever the extrovert, was the first to speak. He dragged Jonathan to one of the couches beside the girl and forced him to sit down, much to Jonathan’s disgruntlement. Who knew when the last time these couches had been cleaned was? “I’m Thomas Baird.” With this, he stuck his hand out, waiting patiently for a response. The girl stared at it for a minute, shifting her gaze between the outstretched hand and Thomas’ face, before taking it in her own and giving it a single shake.

“Micah Abedi.” Her gaze moved from Thomas to Jonathan, who nodded his head once in greeting.

“Jonathan Crane.”

Micah nodded as well, and with that, Thomas launched into his entire life story, allowing Jonathan to sink back into the shadows. The room was beginning to warm now as the fire increased in size and other students began to arrive. They came in various states; a few seemed more anxious than others, electing to hover at the edges of the room, and others dove right for the spare couches. There were boys who looked like pro-footballers, and girls who looked like they could rival them, and then there were those -like Jonathan - who looked like they’d break with the first summer breeze. Jonathan scrutinized each one as they inched their way in. The only thing that really bound them all together now was the fact that each and every one of them was a first year student. None really seemed too worth his time, leading him to conclude that perhaps staying with Thomas - and now Micah, he supposed - would be his best bet.This contented him, and he allowed himself to rest his head back and look up at the ceiling. The spattered, stained, and disgusting ceiling.

The conversation died out as the doors opened once more and Jodi, her beehive re-twisted and her smile still fixed on her face, came rushing into the room. “Good evening Martha House of ‘92! I hope you’re all settled and ready for the orientation events! I’m just going to go over some house rules with you-”

Jodi’s voice died out as Thomas nudged Jonathan’s shoulder and leaned in, his lips inches from the others ear. “I was thinking of bending a bit of rules tonight. I want to start off my film strong, y’know, and I don’t think it’s fair that we should have restrictions on where we can go. I mean, we pay to live here, after all.”

Jonathan felt his eyebrow arch up a bit as he kept his gaze fixated on Jodi, but leaned his head a bit closer to Thomas. “Oh?” He murmured in response. Thomas smiled.

“Oh, indeed. Are you interested?”

Jonathan weighed the pros and cons for a moment. On one hand, violating house rules on the first night would almost certainly set him up for a hard path at the hands of Don Jodi, who was running her vulture-like stare over the students in the room. On the other hand, Jonathan had left his home to be free from confining rules, and frankly, the thought of being put under restrictions mere moments after tasting freedom was practically appalling. Thomas had a fair point - they were paying to be here, after all. The worst thing Don Jodi could do would reprimand them and, even then, all they had to say was that they got lost. It was the first night, after all.

“Why not?” He mused, and saw Thomas smile from the edges of his vision.


	4. September 5th, 1992.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An expedition to the great unknown leads to an unusual discovery by Jonathan, and Barbara catches a break in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been neglecting you all too long, so in a bid to apologize, I give you my longest chapter yet. Now we're getting the ball rolling with a plot. After this? Interrogation round 2, followed shortly by a guest appearance of a few other Arkham inmates.

_September 5th, 1992 - Martha House. 11:45 pm._

The free period they experienced between the conclusion of their meeting and the set hour of departure was, if anything, excruciating. Jonathan was sure that time had fallen into a vat of molasses, as seconds felt like minutes and minutes like hours. Thomas alternated between fiddling with his camera and redecorating his side of the room. This included taking down posters, putting up posters, requesting Jonathan’s input on the posters’ new location, and then repeating the process all over again. Jonathan, in the meantime, filled the gap by reading one of the textbooks he had brought along with him. It had been Joseph’s idea to buy the books before school began and Jonathan was only now appreciating this unexpected stroke of genius. If he didn’t have something to read, he would have been subjected to even more of Thomas’ decor inquiries. 

“Time check?” The same question had been asked mere moments ago, but Jonathan still repeated the now familiar motion of pulling up his sleeve to check. 

“Quarter to twelve.” 

Thomas said nothing in response. Jonathan pivoted in his seat to see the other tapping his finger on his cheek with his lips pinched and eyes narrowed into an expression of cartoonish contemplation. When Thomas realized that he had captured Jonathan’s undivided attention, a guileful grin broke across his face and he grabbed his camera. 

“Silent hour started at 11, which means that it’s just Don-on-call now. Jodi mentioned she wasn’t on-call tonight. Given that classes are starting in a few days, she’ll probably be in bed already.” Thomas hurried to the other side of their room and clicked off the lamp, plunging the space into darkness. There was a moment where Jonathan’s vision was completely obstructed by shadows before a blinking red light flickered on a few feet from where he sat. Thomas had already begun filming.

“Why are we doing this again?” Jonathan was gradually beginning to feel pangs of regret for agreeing to play a role in Thomas’ odd plan. As much as he enjoyed the thrill that defying authority could produce, they didn’t even know if the basement was accessible, let alone what was in there. 

“I told you, I don’t want to start my film off all _dull_ . A successful film is defined by how well it can captivate the audience within the first few minutes. If the first few minutes are shit, then the film is done for. It won’t serve any purpose in the future. I fully intend for _my_ video tapes to serve a purpose.” Thomas’ voice captured the distress that Jonathan was sure his face reflected. 

“And what will that purpose be, do you think? I highly doubt many will be looking to use an undergraduate student’s janky footage of empty hallways for anything _groundbreaking_.” He drawled out his comments as he stood, pushing the chair in and navigating towards the blinking light. He reckoned this was how sailors felt when they were caught in storms on the sea, seeking out the distant beam of a lighthouse so they could make their way to safety. The vulnerability the situation produced was not enjoyable. 

“With where we’re going, probably some shady crime.” There was a derisive snort followed shortly by the jangling of keys before the door to their room was opened and a dull, orange light filtered in. Jonathan caught sight of Thomas’ face in that moment. His eyes were wide, excited, and he looked out into the hall like it held secrets untold. Jonathan wondered how someone could experience so much eagerness for something as unexcitable as a basement. 

“Gotham hardly has the crime rate you seem to think it does.” Jonathan lowered his voice to a soft murmur as they stepped out into the hall, looking from left to right. It appeared that Thomas had been right on his prediction. The halls were completely devoid of life.

“Really? Did you do any research before you came into this town? We got Arkham just down the way from the school. Not to mention Gotham’s got the Thornes, the Falcones, the Cobblepots,” Thomas raised a finger for every name he prattled off, fixing Jonathan with a conceited look. He probably took pride in thinking that he had already one-upped his roommate on something, even though Jonathan had lived closer to, and been present in, Gotham for far longer than he. 

“Please tell me you’re not one of those crime fanatics. The last thing I desire is to walk into our room one day to see a corkboard with Dahmer’s pictures all over it.” Jonathan allowed himself to ease up a bit as he spoke. He wondered if his comments would begin to rub off on Thomas. The other’s never-faltering eagerness was a trait that Jonathan felt he’d grow tired of.

He waited for the cutting retort that Thomas would surely have to say in return, but when none came, he shot a curious look over his shoulder to see the other’s gaze fixated on the room next to theirs. The light was still on underneath the door and there was a shadow that danced along the crack, as though someone was moving from within. When Jonathan glanced up at the nametag, he found that the room belonged to the girl. She was from the house meeting where Thomas had proceeded to dump all of his verbal baggage. 

“You’re being too loud.” Thomas grumbled. 

“How tragic.” Jonathan shot back, although it lacked any bite, before stepping further into the hall. The stairs were located at the far end, and Jonathan felt compelled to remind Thomas that there were several squeaky floorboards between them and their destination. Before he had the chance to do so, however, Thomas was already trudging towards the stairs like a bull elephant in a forest. Jonathan felt his eyes widen and he bit his cheek as he shot after the other. He, unlike Thomas, actually took precautions to avoid the weaker floorboards. This led to a rather comedic scene of him moving against the walls while Thomas strode straight down the middle with absolutely no regard for consequences. 

“Did you say Dahmer because I’m from Wisconsin?” The comfortable silence that had settled between them was broken a few minutes later as the two made their way down the steps, the stress of the journey there now gradually easing up.

“What?” The question caught Jonathan off-guard. He had been so fixated on not tripping on the steps that he had hardly registered what Thomas said. “I—no? His trials were all over the news earlier this year. Did you not watch them?” 

Thomas shrugged, although the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Given it all went down in my home state, I didn’t really have a choice. It was pretty much the only thing the news talked about.” He stopped to pan the camera around the second floor hallway a bit before they continued their descent. 

“But that’s the news for you, right? Something like that happens, it throws everyone off guard, and suddenly it’s like lighting a match in a forest during a dry spell. Everything catches ablaze and it blows completely out of proportion.” 

Jonathan rather liked that analogy. It held a substantial bit of truth in it. 

“Why do you ask, anyway? Did I insult you by mentioning a home-state sin?” Jonathan's lips quirked into a grin. If mentioning a crime in his home state was enough to rile Thomas up, then they certainly weren’t going to last to next term together. Thomas, however, scoffed at this suggestion and lowered his camera to get a better look at Jonathan.

“Nah. I just don’t need people thinking I’m a connoisseur of human flesh because I come from Milwaukee. It’ll disappoint them even more when they find out that I can’t cook for shit.” Another devilish grin broke across Thomas’ face, wide enough that Jonathan could see the whites of his teeth even in the darkness, before he fixed his camera back onto the final flight of stairs. Both boys stood at the edge and looked down the steps which seemed to lead into shadows blacker than the ones they now stood in. There were no hall lights on the first floor. Jonathan wagered this was because no one technically _lived_ on this floor, and if the school could save electricity, they would certainly take the chance. This was Gotham. 

“I feel like Orpheus,” Thomas mused, already putting his foot on the first step. “When he was about to stomp his way down to Hades.” 

“That better not make me Eurydice.” Jonathan shot back. Thomas chuckled and shook his head. 

“Just don’t go disappearing on me if I look back at you. The last thing I need is to have to explain to Don Jodi how my roommate dropped off the face of the earth on the first night.” 

“Just say you’re living up to your Milwaukee heritage.” Thomas spun around, seemingly prepared to inform Jonathan _exactly_ what he thought about that, when a brilliant light interrupted his thoughts, blinding him in the process. 

“Oh, _God_?” Thomas’ brow furrowed as he and Jonathan both squinted against the intrusive beam. 

“You really think he’d be in this place?” The voice that answered them was feminine with a strong cajun accent. The beam lowered, allowing both boys to see who their unexpected hallway companion was. Standing a few steps above them was Micah Abedi, wearing an oversized sweater, slippers, and a look of admirable disdain. 

“I told you that you were being too loud.” Thomas’ finger tapped the camera as he looked between Micah and the basement, his expression gradually becoming more and more forlorn. Jonathan was too busy blinking away the spots that danced in front of his eyes to particularly care. “Are you going to tell Don Jodi?” 

Micah snorted, a response neither of them expected. 

“Tell me what you two are doing and I’ll decide.” 

“And if you tell her, what excuse will you have for yourself?” Having recovered, Jonathan found himself crossing his arms in defiance as he looked up at the other. He was so focused on her that he almost missed the smug look Thomas shot him. 

“I was headed to the bathroom and heard a noise on the first floor. Worried that something was happening, went to investigate, and found two boys trying to get into the basement. The same basement we were told not to go into— _explicitly_.” Micah's face was not quite discernible in the shadows, but Jonathan felt sure that her expression was pleased. A wave of disgust ran through him. He didn’t like it when people looked down at him in such a manner.

“We want to check out the basement. That’s literally it.” Thomas waved the camera in the air. “It’s for my film.” 

“Your film?” Micah moved down the last few steps until she was standing directly in front of the two boys. Jonathan was surprised at how short she actually was when she was at their level. She had to be about 5’3, which meant she needed to crane her neck back if she wanted to get a good look at Jonathan’s face. “And what exactly is the purpose of this film?” 

“I want to capture my undergraduate years. I mean, if I don’t use it for future projects,”

“Or solving crimes,” Jonathan interjected.

“Or solving crimes. Then I can just cut and splice the footage into other projects. It’ll be like my own stock collection. Plus, you gotta admit, it kind’ve beats keeping a journal.” Thomas sounded so proud of himself for his reasoning that Jonathan nearly rolled his eyes. The hour was drawing on and he was starting to grow tired. He had to be up around 8 am tomorrow, and at this rate, unless Micah allowed them to continue with what they were doing, they were going to be stuck at this entrance until morning. Or worse yet, until Don Jodi arrived. 

“Then why the basement?” Micah asked, raising her free hand and pointing towards the yawning entrance. “Isn’t it just storage?”

“See, that’s what they _say_.” Thomas was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he spoke, glancing between Jonathan and Micah. Both were giving him similar blank stares in return. “Oh come on, you guys haven’t heard?” 

“Heard _what_?” Jonathan asked between gritted teeth. He was starting to sympathize more with Micah's reasoning of the basement being a pointless trip. 

“About the original owners of this house. There’s a legend that this house used to be owned by a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Duvain, before it got sold to the university. Apparently, Mr. Duvain was really into the occult and performed a lot of weird ceremonies in his basement. People say they sold the house off to the university because Mr. Duvain called something into this world and they were both incapable of sending it back. Rather than deal with it for the rest of their lives, they jumped ship and left it for the university to handle.”

“Ah, so they did what any old folk do. They left the students to deal with the demonic pests they summoned.” Micah let out a sigh and pointed her flashlight beam down the steps. “Do you have a light of your own?” 

Both boys shook their heads, earning them each an incredulous stare.

“You’re _both_ the worst paranormal investigators, you know that? I guess this means I have to come with you before the only horror you end up finding is the need for a tetanus shot from your own stupidity.” Thomas visibly cheered up at this. 

“So, no Don Jodi?” He asked, and Micah shook her head. Thomas let out a cheerful laugh before raising his camera again. “Excellent! You know, Micah, I had a good feeling about you when I first saw you. I mean, admittedly, I wasn’t sure, given that you were wearing that gaudy floral sweater—”

Jonathan allowed Thomas’ ramblings to fade into static as they all made their way down the steps. Instead, he found his attention being drawn to how the temperature around them was beginning to gradually decrease as they descended, and how the beam from Micah’s flashlight was soon the only source of familiarity in the oppressive darkness. 

* * *

The basement ended up being a waste of time. Thomas and Micah had managed to locate a string attached to an incandescent bulb which dangled down from the ceiling and, once pulled, cast the basement in an orange glow. The light only served to illuminate how much of a disappointment the basement was. Brick walls, rotting wooden beams, and countless numbers of cardboard boxes littering the space were all that the room truly had to provide. Jonathan eventually found himself digging idly though a few of those boxes to kill time as Thomas puttered about. 

“They store the old trophies down here.” Micah’s voice was closer than expected, and Jonathan glanced up to where she stood idly by. She was holding what appeared to be an old plaque with a gold trim. Carved on it were numerous small lines, which Jonathan presumed were names. He let out a hum of feigned interest before returning to his own box. Old shoes, holiday decorations, and extra table cloths seemed to comprise the majority of its contents. 

“This is a bust.” Thomas' voice carried from the far corner of the room, and his comment was followed swiftly by the sound of a box being kicked over. Jonathan straightened up and fixed him with a look.

“You genuinely expected something else?” He let out his own sigh, fixing his shirt and rolling up his sleeves. “If you were hoping the university would keep it how the Duvain’s left it, then you really don’t know how moving out works. You tend to take everything with you.” 

“I wasn’t _hoping_ that they’d keep it exactly how it was. But you know, maybe a sign or something which led to the Duvain’s would be nice?” Thomas leaned against the wall as he spoke, but as soon as his shoulder made contact with the bricks, he jerked back as though he’d been shocked. Jonathan and Micah both fixed their attention on him at the startled gasp he let out, watching as his hand shot back to the brick to give it a few shoves. The brick, oddly enough, shifted under the force. 

“Secret storage areas,” Micah mused, moving past Jonathan to examine the wall herself. “I’m starting to think you were right with that occultist bull.” 

Thomas offered her no response. Instead, he set his camera down on one of the boxes and focused on prying the brick free. After a few failed attempts, the brick finally came loose and fell on the floor with a resounding thump. Jonathan approached the side of the room where the others stood, and soon the three of them were staring into a medium sized hole in the wall. Micah flicked on her flashlight and pointed it within. At the far back of the rather sizable gap, there sat a box. 

“Oh, _fuck_ !” Thomas jerked back and shook his head. “It’s a dead body. It’s absolutely a dead body.” He continued to babble as he stepped away from the hole and looked between the two. “I bet it’s one of Duvain’s victims and the police never found it because police _never_ look in the boxes.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jonathan sneered, wiping his hands on his pants before moving closer to the entrance. “Keep the flashlight pointed on the box, Micah. I’m going to pull it out.” 

Micah seemed to need no further prompting, and instead offered a mute nod, keeping her flashlight on the box as directed. Jonathan leaned his entire body against the bricks and reached inside, thankful for once that his limbs were as long and lanky as they were. It took a few moments, but sure enough, the box was soon out of the hole and at their feet. 

It was completely mundane. It might’ve been a cream color at one point, but now it was stained brown with the consequences of dirt and time. The edges of the lid were slightly frayed, and there was a noticeable indent on the left side. Other than that, though, it was as innocuous as a box could be. Jonathan knelt down in front of it and rested his hands on the lid, only to be stopped by Thomas’ whimper from behind.

“Don’t open it! I’m serious! What if it’s cursed or something? Are we really going to be those dumb college kids that unleash the entity? _Really_?” The anxiety edged in his voice brought Jonathan to a pause, only to have it broken by Micah’s cough.

“It isn’t cursed, Thomas. I’ve seen things that have been regarded as cursed. I’ve felt their energy, and I can tell you right now that this thing is as boring as they come.” She put the flashlight between her teeth and knelt down across from Jonathan. She paused for two moments to grip the lid with both hands before jerking it off, sending it clattering on the floor next to them. Thomas let out what could only be described as a shriek when the lid hit the floor. Jonathan and Micah, however, both leaned forward to get a better look at what resided within. 

Micah took the flashlight out from her mouth and frowned. “Damn.”

The comment easily summed up the item they now observed. A smooth, venetian style mask lay within the box. Ornate detailing of vines outlined the sides of its face, and its mouth was molded to resemble a slightly opened frown, as though they had caught it in a moment of deep thought. It was dyed a deep green colour, which could be easily mistaken as black unless observed in direct light. When Jonathan picked it up, he was surprised to see what looked like a set of stag horns resting beneath it. The horns, judging by the sharp edges at the bottom, appeared to have been broken off from the original mask. 

“That’s...not what I expected, to be honest?” Thomas was back behind them, peering over their shoulders with a frown of his own. Jonathan stared down at the mask for a moment before setting it back inside the box. 

“Well, have we had our adventure yet?” he asked, setting the lid back on the box and picking it up. At least they had managed to find something of worth in this otherwise pointless space. Micah gave the box a pointed look.

“Are you gonna put it back?” 

Jonathan scoffed and shook his head. “I have to be up early tomorrow, and I was forced to stay here longer because you two wanted to play investigators. I think I deserve at least one trinket out of this.” He shook the box and raised an eyebrow. “And this will look _lovely_ mounted over my bed.” 

“So, you’re allowed to mount creepy masks, but I can’t put up corkboards with killers?” Thomas grabbed his camera off of the box as Micah and Jonathan both got to their feet. “I’m starting to sense an imbalance of power here.” 

Jonathan rolled his eyes and tucked the box under his arm before gesturing towards the stairs.

“Let’s just go before we wake up the rest of the house.”

* * *

_October 9th, 1992 - Rossum Computer Sciences Building._

“Doctor _Baird._ ” Micah’s voice cut the stale air as the three of them moved through the main doors of the building, their motions drawing in a few of the autumn leaves which had already fallen from their branches. “It took me over a week to put that together. Please tell me you two have no relation. If I have to deal with an older version of you, I’m dropping the class.” 

“Baird’s a pretty common surname, you know.” Thomas leaned back a bit to get a good glimpse at Micah past Jonathan’s shoulders. “Also I know all my uncles, cousins, half cousins, half-uncles, and in-laws. There’s no Nathanial Baird.” The comment caused Jonathan to frown and raise his head from the book he had been looking at. 

“Half-uncle?” 

Thomas seemed ready to offer an explanation when Micah stopped, gesturing to a door on their nearby left. 

“Listen, I need to meet a classmate here for a group project. You guys can tag along, or you can keep going and get the rundown of Thomas’ entire family history.” She gave a sly look to Jonathan. “It’s captivating, really, and it’s great for killing time. Three hours worth.” 

“We’ll join you.” Jonathan didn’t even allow the possibility of protest to arise from Thomas as he shoved open the classroom door to step inside. They were the only three in the room it seemed, and the door fell shut behind them with a heavy thud. Thomas seemed primed to start another monologue, but Jonathan found himself slinking to the far side of the room where the lecturer's desk was situated before he was given the chance. He sunk down in the chair, raised the book, and tried to make himself as unapproachable as possible. He had a backlog of neuropsychology to catch up to, and as invigorating as Thomas could be, the enthusiasm the other boy carried had still not dampened, even after the first few weeks. Professor Vilmer’s assignments would remain untouched if Thomas Baird was given the opportunity to go on a tangent. 

“So, who are you meeting?” Thomas returned his attention to Micah, who was sitting back against the window ledge with her bookbag on her lap. She shrugged and pulled it open, removing a biology textbook which she promptly discarded on the desk. 

“Just some girl from my class. Last name was Hart, or something.” 

“Hart? Like, the politician's kid?” Thomas let out a low whistle and reached up to fix his hair. “Girl’s got money, if that’s the case.” 

Jonathan, watching the interaction from the rim of his textbook, let out a groan. 

“Thomas, she’s here for school-related purposes, not a social call. Please focus your _poor_ seduction techniques on someone more in your league.” Micah let out an amused chuckle, which only grew at the sight of Thomas deflating under his roommate’s apprehensive stare. A comfortable dynamic was beginning to form between the three of them. Micah acted as a mitigator of sorts between Thomas’ sociable, eager ways and Jonathan’s more quiet, sarcastic approach. “Besides, isn’t your family wealthy enough as it is? Why would you need to get more money?”

“Cockblock.” The comment was grumbled under his breath as Thomas reached into his own bag, fishing around a bit, before yanking his camera out. “Wealthy families always marry wealthy families. I mean, Wayne married a Kane, did he not?” Thomas smacked the camera's side a few times as he spoke.

“Is it still acting up?” Micah diverted the conversation with a surprising ease, which Jonathan was thankful for. 

“Yeah…it’s a Sony Hi8, so you’d think it would be functional, since it just got released this year. But the stupid lens keeps giving me this wonky looking line that I can’t seem to fix.” The red button on the camera's side began blinking as Thomas turned it on, panning around the room a bit before focusing it solely on Jonathan. Jonathan, in return, raised his textbook to cover his face. Thomas’ protests were cut short before they could begin by the sound of the classroom door being forced open. A moment later, a girl with mousy brown hair and a flushed face came hurrying in, letting the door slam shut behind her. 

“I am _so_ sorry! Doctor Baird’s office hours started off late, so I ended up waiting in the hallway for ages before he finally let me in.” The girl, who Jonathan presumed was Micah's partner, ran her fingers through her windswept hair before finally noticing that it wasn’t just Micah in the room. She looked to Thomas, who gave her his usual charming grin, and then to Jonathan, whose apprehensive stare had still not left his face. She, in return, smiled. 

“At least you had company!” 

* * *

_November 10th, 2018 - GCPD Precinct._

It took less than a moment for Barbara to sit bolt upright in her seat, her mouth falling agape at what she was seeing on the screen. The video had frozen, probably a skip in the reel, on the girl who had just burst into the room. She would have been completely forgettable, had that very same face not been plastered over every available surface in Gotham no more than two years after this moment. The pencil which Barbara had been holding so loosely before now dove against her notebook, cutting lines against the paper like a razor on skin. She needed to call her father, to confirm to him what she was seeing. She needed to call Renee and Harvey to let them know they needed to drill Jonathan harder—that Jonathan knew _something._

She had to let them know that she was looking right at their missing girl.


End file.
